


Yellow Alert

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones needs an intervention before he works himself into the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Alert

McCoy is the only person Jim has ever seen that successfully manages to stomp with his entire body, for an extended period of time. Most people can never keep up a convincing strop beyond a few hours or so; it’s an exhausting experience. But McCoy has perfected the art of the stomp. He tops the heavy, echoing steps all off with tense shoulders, crossed arms, an acidic frown that could make a small child cry at thirty paces, and the mother of all glares.   
  
Jim can never help cringing when McCoy suddenly looms out at him, one eyebrow raised, shoulders hunched in that slight, grouchy-old-man stoop that seems to feed on the energy of a bad mood. It's classical conditioning at its finest.  
  
Nobody does bad moods like McCoy. He relishes every second of them, no matter how much he denies his blatant sado-masochism.   
  
“I’m not sick,” blurts Jim, pre-emptively, defensively throwing his hands up and sliding off the biobed as McCoy strides toward him, a definite stomp in his step.   
  
“Then what the hell do you want, Jim?” snaps McCoy, eyes narrowing immediately. “I’m busy, you know.”   
  
 _Yellow alert_ , thinks Jim.  _Proceed with caution_.   
  
“Yes, I know, busy making Ensign Hanrahan cry. I’m pretty sure you’ve terrified any last traces of that UTI out of him; my dick was cringing in sympathy. I have a present for you,” says Jim, with a bright grin. He claps his hands together, and watches McCoy’s eyes narrow just that fraction of a millimetre more.   
  
“Yes?” drawls McCoy, tone dangerous. Now that he’s up this close, Jim can see the fine lines around his mouth, the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. This is the  _Hasn’t Slept in a Goddamn While_ model, version eleventy-billion, and also maybe  _Needs to Stop Ingesting So Much Caffeine_.  
  
“Bones,” says Jim, and he pulls a hypospray from his back pocket and plunges it into McCoy’s neck, “This is an intervention.”  
  
McCoy manages, “Aaaargh–” and then hits the floor with a resounding thud.

 

oOo

  
Jim is tempted to tie him down in his quarters, after he gets him there, just in case McCoy wakes up in a fouler mood than he passed out in, but he figures after eight hours of sleep, a nutrient and electrolyte booster, and a cup of decaffeinated coffee waiting by the bed, Bones might be less inclined to stab him in the throat with his toothbrush.   
  
Just in case, Jim has a tray of waffles with real maple syrup waiting, plus a glass of pomegranate juice and a handful of pecan pralines. He waits in the living area, because he’s calculated a significant decrease in the chance of suffering potential bodily harm should he be near Bones when he first gets up; the first signs of life in the other room are, predictably, a groan, then a sharp curse, and a low, angry growl.   
  
But then there is silence, and Jim hopes that’s McCoy drinking his coffee, and when he shuffles out, mug in hand, Jim relaxes just a little.   
  
“Hey,” he says, carefully.   
  
“Hey,” says McCoy, his voice rough. He’s in the faded blue flannel pyjamas Jim dressed him in, barefoot, hair cowlicked in the most spectacular way.   
  
“Sleep well?” asks Jim lightly.   
  
“Technically, a sedative isn’t proper sleep,” mutters McCoy, taking another sip of coffee, his gaze moving over to the tray on the table and stopping there with definite interest. “Real?” he asks, after a moment, quickly losing the ability to speak in full sentences.   
  
“Would I bother with anything less?” says Jim, mock-affronted. He sets down his PADD, deeming it safe to join McCoy near the table.   
  
“Pomegranate?” McCoy’s voice is hopeful.   
  
“Sit,” grins Jim, pulling out the chair. McCoy huffs, grumbles something about a meddling crew and an insufferable captain, but he sinks down into his chair anyway. Jim kisses the top of his head.   
  
“Thanks, Jim,” mumbles McCoy, around a mouthful of waffles. “But try that again, and I will dismember you slowly and reassemble you backwards.”  
  
Jim’s grin only spreads. “Noted.”


End file.
